


In the Eyes of a Dragon

by fancyh



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies), Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - How to Train Your Dragon Fusion, Dragon Merlin, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 04:35:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fancyh/pseuds/fancyh
Summary: How to Train Your Dragon Fusion. The dragons are all gone, hunted to extinction by King Uther. But when Arthur finds a dragon in the woods, he can't bring himself to kill it. Instead, he saves it, and in the process learns truths about himself, the kingdom, and a past long hidden.





	1. How to Kill a Dragon

_This is how you kill a dragon,_ his father whispers, when Arthur is barely old enough to grasp a sword, hands clumsy and soft and heart softer. 

 _Aim for the heart,_ he says.  _A dragon's heart is on its right._

 _Strike quickly,_ he says. 

_And never, ever hesitate._

__

_There are no more dragons._

No, there is one. Chained beneath the castle as an example. The rest hunted to extinction by the time Arthur turns twenty. 

_There used to be dragons._

Sometimes Arthur imagines it, seeing dragons in the sky. He dreams of riding them, feeling the warmth of scales beneath his palm; he dreams of flying, the wind whipping at his face, and when he wakes he can still taste the clouds. 

But they are only dreams. When he tells his father, Uther says that dragons are - were - cruel, vicious creatures. They are good for one thing only: Death.

When he is five, he learns a dragon killed his mother. He never tells his father about his dreams again.

This, he knows: _His father killed the dragons._

__

The sun filters through the trees, illuminating the clearing and making Arthur squint as he raises his crossbow, breaths even and body still. The deer glances around, nose twitching, before bending its long neck back down, white tail flicking aimlessly. Arthur breathes, finger tightening on the trigger.

The day is warm and cloudless, air rich with the smells of early autumn, and Arthur is glad for the chance to get away from the stuffiness of the castle and his father's expectations, if only for a few hours. He should have taken guards, being the Prince, but he'd told a few white lies and managed to set off on his own, relishing the thought of complete freedom. Sometimes he hates being a Prince, hates the way people talk to him and the expectations. It is lonely, he thinks, though he would never dare admit it. People love him for his status, his riches, nothing more. Sometimes he watches the villagers in the lower town, watches the children playing with each other, faces spattered with mud, watches the husbands cast loving eyes on their wives. He never had that. Will never have that.

The forest is his sanctuary. It listens without reproach, shelters him, feeds him, lets him cast all his worries into its welcoming embrace. Out here, it is peaceful. No one is asking him things, calling him  _sire_ and  _my lord_ and bowing and scraping, no one petitioning him as if he is the answer to their troubles. Just quiet, and the promise of a good hunt.

He's about to pull the trigger when there's a sound like the beating of great wings, a shadow blotting out the sun. The deer startles, head flashing up, and starts to spring away before a shape plummets to earth, immense and black, long claws reaching out to ensnare the helpless fawn. A crack resounds through the clearing. 

The dragon settles to the ground, deer falling limp from it's mouth.

Arthur is frozen, finger still brushing the trigger of his crossbow as he stares at the dragon. 

_He's found one._

After all these years, he has found a dragon, and not even a league from Camelot.

His father's teachings come rushing back and the cold calm of the hunt settles over him once more, every sense trained on the iridescent black dragon standing in the middle of the clearing, so different from how he'd imagined dragons to be. It's not that large, it's back only coming up to around Arthur's shoulders, and its form is sleek and slender, a fine ridge of black scales running down its spine and leathery wings folded close to its body, tail swishing lazily like a cat. It's leaning down, sniffing the deer, its left side to Arthur, and he knows he will have to make this shot count.

He inhales. Aims. Fires.

The bolt pierces through the dragon's wing, embedding into its side. The dragon roars, whirling around as its damaged wing flaps futilely, bright blue eyes searching out Arthur in the undergrowth as it opens its mouth to spit fire. Arthur rolls out of the way of the jet of flame, circling around the dragon and firing again, bolt sinking into its left haunch. 

The dragon stumbles, cries, maddened with pain and fear as it tries to find Arthur. He grabs the net intended for hunting and rigs it to his next bolt, taking careful aim. The net spirals out through the air, catching the dragon's head and neck and entangling its wings; off-balance, the dragon falls, landing heavily on its right side with a final cry.

Arthur creeps forwards, drawing his sword. The dragon is panting, struggling against its bonds intermittently and uttering keening, rumbling sounds that pierce Arthur's heart. As he gets closer the dragon's eyes snap to his, blue as the deepest lake and filled with fear, drawing Arthur in. There's something...human about them, and as he raises his sword above the dragon, poised to deal the final blow, he sees himself reflected in their depths.

He hesitates.

The sword wavers. The dragon keens, eyes slipping closed and body going limp. Arthur hefts the sword higher, swings-

The blade stops. The dragon cracks open an eye as Arthur stands trembling, warring with himself. He has to kill the dragon. It is his duty as a Prince, as a Pendragon. But surely...the dragon has been out here, and there have been no reports of attacks. It was hunting a deer. Perhaps...perhaps this dragon isn't a threat.

And he can't...he can't kill something so... _beautiful._ He reaches out tentatively, a hand brushing the scales. They're warm and smooth, exactly like his dreams only  _real,_ and the dragon is still watching him with those blue, blue eyes, a mirror of his own, and Arthur  _can't_ kill it, he  _can't-_

Before he knows what he's doing he's dropping to his knees, pulling out a dagger and sawing through the ropes binding the dragon. The last one snaps and the dragon lunges with a roar, pinning him to the ground with clawed feet as it stares him down, sharp teeth bared in a snarl. Arthur stares back, caught again in the dragon's gaze, heart beating a staccato against his ribcage and hot breath washing over his face. 

This is how he's going to die. All because of his damned soft heart. Because he  _hesitated._

The dragon roars in his face, wings flapping, and then turns, leaping away into the air. It flaps but falls, wing tattered where the bolt pierced, and maintains a lurching pace into the forest, trees breaking in its wake and blood staining the ground, one leg trailing behind it and it's cries echoing back. 

_He's alive._

Arthur is on his feet, racing through the forest towards where he left his horse and supplies. Swinging into the saddle, he takes off after the dragon, dodging branches and leaping over felled trees as he follows the trail, the dragon's flight getting slower and slower as it tires. He watches the dragon stumble, and then disappear over the edge of a ravine, a crash signaling its impact at the bottom. 

Arthur dismounts and jogs to the edge, peering over. The ravine is dry, with an overhanging cliff face and a grassy floor, trees arching over and providing shelter. Circling to the right reveals a safer incline that Arthur takes down, cautiously approaching the still form of the dragon on the ground. There's a ripple, a shimmer almost, and suddenly instead of a dragon it's a man curled naked, skin pale under a mop of dark hair. 

Arthur rushes to the still figure, reaching out to touch his shoulder. The skin is warm to the touch, and the man - boy, really - is unconscious, eyes closed and full lips parted slightly, a sharp cheekbone framing a beautiful face. As Arthur trails his gaze down he sees what looks like a light pattern of scales across the boy's lightly muscled torso and chest, a darker pattern trailing down the length of his spine almost like the ridges on the dragon. The two crossbow bolts are still driven into the boy, one in his side and one in his thigh. Bolts Arthur had fired at the dragon.

Can dragons turn into humans? Or humans into dragons?

There's no answers, or time to find them. The pool of blood on the ground is growing steadily, the boy's lips paling. Forcing the questions to the back of his mind Arthur quickly runs to the top of the ravine, grabbing his pack. He always carries spare bandages with him, a blessing as he yanks out the arrow in the boy's side. He thinks Gaius, the Court Physician, once told him something about not removing the arrow, but it seems the most logical choice. 

Luckily, the wound doesn't seem to be too deep, and Arthur bandages it as best he can before moving to the arrow in his thigh. He yanks it out, worried when it starts to bleed freely, but he wraps bandages tightly around the leg and hopes for the best, sitting back on his heels and wiping his bloodied hands on the ground. 

It hits him, finally, that the boy is naked, and Arthur rummages in his pack until he finds a spare blanket, carefully wrapping it around the unconscious form and resettling him under the overhang. A glance up at the sky tells him it's nearing midday, and his father will expect him back soon. 

He can't just leave the dragon - _dragon-person?_ \- here. What if it runs, or dies? He's not sure he doesn't want either of those to happen. 

But he has no choice. He'll come back tonight, he tells himself. If the dragon is still there, then...he'll figure it out. If not, or if it's dead, it's no longer his problem. 

Satisfied, he casts one last look at the boy and climbs up out of the ravine, securing his pack and mounting his horse. He has nothing to show for his morning hunt, but he thinks of excuses as he rides, discarding ones about bandits and brigands. No need to have a patrol out in these woods. He should tell his father about the dragon, but he can't. Not only did he fail to kill the dragon, he  _let it go,_ and then treated its wounds. His father would have his head. At the least, knights would be dispatched immediately to find and kill the dragon, and Arthur can't let that happen, not until he has answers.

His whole life, no one dared to mention dragons unless to discuss how to kill them. He doesn't know how his mother died, doesn't know how he got the small scar on his chin, doesn't know anything about dragons or why the Pen _dragon_ crest is a golden dragon. There is a history there, he know, but no one will speak of it. 

He needs, too, to know how a dragon can be a man. Dragons are mindless beasts, he knows this, but this one...if dragons are intelligent, if they're  _human,_ then it changes everything.

 _There are dragons,_ he thinks, with a rush of anticipation. He spurs his horse onwards as the gleaming castle comes into view, heart keeping time to the drum of hoofbeats on the ground.

_There is a dragon._

 


	2. Truth and Trust

The sword whistles through the air, clashing against Leon's with a ring of metal on metal, dulled edges scraping against each other as Arthur whirls and parries, sweat trickling down his brow and muscles burning with exertion. A dodge, a parry, and a swipe, and Leon is flat on his back, Arthur's sword at his throat.

He grins, breathing heavily, and reaches down to clasp Leon's wrist, pulling him up.

"Good work."

"Likewise, sire," Leon responds, curls damp with sweat. Arthur claps him on the shoulder, sending him over to the sidelines.

"Next!"

The next knight approaches. Arthur twirls his sword and settles into a fighting stance, blood singing through his veins. He loves fighting, loves the rush of adrenaline and danger, the feeling of the sword in his hand. He knows he's the best swordsman in Camelot, all bragging aside, though Morgana would beg to differ. Unbeknownst to Uther, his ward rather prefers sword-fighting to needlework. Arthur doesn't dare correct that assumption.

He knows she's probably watching right now from her window, and doesn't envy her being cooped up in the castle all day. Luckily she has Gwen, her maidservant, who she adores and who adores her back as far as Arthur can tell. Gwen is the blacksmith's daughter, and Arthur wouldn't be surprised if she's made Morgana her own sword. Arthur strategically doesn't ask. Plausible deniability is always a good thing with Uther.

Today, however, his mind is far from annoying castle occupants and trained on a certain dragon he'd left in the woods this morning, bleeding and unconscious. Can Arthur sneak out tonight? Will the dragon still be there? What if it's dead? How is it possible? 

He thought all the dragons were dead except the one in Camelot. How, then, has this dragon survived? And why was it so close to Camelot? How can it turn into a human? 

The questions circle through his mind, tumbling around like a boulder in a stream. He takes out his confusion on his knights, leaving them bruised and battered and limping up to the Court Physician as Arthur retreats to his chambers to bathe before dinner. His usual servant, George, attends him with his customary formality and flair, leaving Arthur with the urge to throw something at him. Technically, George is a perfect servant. There is nothing to find fault with. But still, for some reason, it grates. Arthur just wants someone to treat him like a person.

Morgana would, but he's not in the mood for her particular brand of acerbic wit. Besides, she'd know he was hiding something the moment he opened his mouth. It's uncanny, is what it is.

When he's clean and dressed Arthur heads to the dining hall, Uther already sitting at the head of the table. Arthur slides into his customary seat on his left, a servant stepping forwards to fill his cup. 

"How was training today?" Uther asks, with the stiffness of someone not quite sure how to start a conversation.

"Good," Arthur replies, taking a sip of watered wine. "The new recruits are improving."

"Good, good." Uther nods. "You're doing a fine job, Arthur."

Arthur feels a small burst of pride and has to stop his feelings from showing on his face, nodding just as stiffly back. It's not often that his father praises him, and sometimes Arthur feels like he's nothing but a disappointment to him. Surely, he would be even more so if he ever found out about the dragon. 

The doors open and Morgana sweeps in, cream colored dress flowing behind her and hair falling in dark waves over her shoulders. She sinks into the chair opposite Arthur, barely sparing him a glance as she smiles at Uther, the picture of a loving ward. Uther returns the smile, something softening in his eyes, and Arthur has to fight down the flash of jealousy that arises. He's certainly never been on the receiving end of such a look.

Servants bustle around them, piling food onto plates, and Morgana chats gamely with Uther as Arthur stares into his cup, foot tapping restlessly beneath the table.

"Arthur."

He looks up sharply, seeing Morgana narrow her eyes at him. "What?"

"I was just asking about Sir Ewan," Uther says. "How is he faring?"

"Gaius says he's recovering well," Arthur replies. "He should be ready for training in a week."

"Good." Uther sits back in his chair, taking a sip from his cup. 

"There's something I wanted to ask you," Arthur blurts, plan forming in his mind as he speaks.

"Oh?"

"There's word of...wolves near Camelot," he improvises. "They're taking livestock. I was thinking of looking for them, maybe speaking with the outlying villages."

Uther seems to think, then nods. "You can take some men."

"No, father, I can do this alone. There's no need to waste men." He holds his breath, trying to keep his face neutral. 

"Very well. It will be good for you to see more of Camelot. Take the week."

Arthur suppresses a smile, relieved it was so easy. "Thank you, father. I'll leave tomorrow morning."

Morgana is still staring at him across the table, eyes narrowed in suspicion, and Arthur avoids her gaze, digging into his food.

* * *

He knocks on the door to the physician's quarters, pushing it open slowly.

"Gaius?"

The physician looks up from where he's grinding herbs, long white hair spilling around his face. "Sire. What can I do for you?"

Arthur enters hesitantly, unsure where to start as he closes the door behind him. "I was wondering if you knew anything about....dragons."

The reaction is immediate. Gaius stiffens, eyes narrowing. "Dragons? What about them?"

"Is it possible for a dragon to...turn into a person?"

Gaius looks shifty, hands stilled on his pestle.

"Gaius, please," Arthur says. "Answer me honestly."

He sighs. "Yes. I believe you're referring to dragonlords."

"Dragon...lords?" Arthur takes a seat at the bench, trying to contain his curiosity.

"Half dragon, half man." Gaius pauses. "Sire, if I may, why the sudden interest?"

"No reason. Why have I never heard of them before?"

Gaius looks down at his mortar, beginning to grind again. "There are none left."

Somehow, Arthur doesn't think that's the reason. There are no dragons, but he's still learned of them. No, it's something else, but he's sure Gaius won't tell him. The man has more secrets than a vault.

"How did you come upon this information?" Gaius asks.

Arthur draws on his Princely status, squaring his shoulders. "That's no concern of yours. Can you tell me about them?"

"I'm afraid I'm not the best person to ask."

"Gaius, you can't expect me to believe that. You're the most learned man in the kingdom."

Gaius presses his lips together, and Arthur sighs, getting up. "Well, thank you Gaius, this has been most enlightening."

The door closes hard in his wake as Arthur strides down the tower steps, frustration bubbling in his chest. Gaius won't tell him anything, so he'll have to find out for himself. Checking to make sure no one sees him, he makes his way to the library, evading the ancient librarian, Geoffrey's, gaze as he searches through the stacks. He finds nothing except books on how to kill dragons, rows upon rows of the best weapons and methods, but nothing on dragonlords. 

It's when he steps a foot on the bookshelf to reach up high that he finds the bookshelf suddenly moving, swinging him into a hidden room lined with books and chests covered in a thick layer of dust. Amazed, he trails his fingers over the spines, pulling out a book at random and studying the cover.

_A History of Dragons,_ it reads. He puts it back, pulling out another one.

_Dragons and Dragonlords._

His heart leaps in his chest. There's a sound outside, a murmur of voices, and Arthur quickly tucks the book into his jacket, finding the latch to trip the spinning shelf and re-emerging in the stuffy aisles of the library. Footsteps grow closer and Arthur ducks behind a shelf, peering through the rows of books as a familiar figure strides down the aisle he'd just come from, pausing to look both ways before tripping the shelf and disappearing into the room.

_Morgana._

When Arthur finally makes it back to his chambers he flops on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as his mind spins. Morgana knows about that room, has probably been visiting it for a while. Why?

He can only guess that she shares his fascination with dragons. He knows she always looks disgusted when Uther talks of killing dragons, though he's always thought she simply doesn't like the killing of animals. Perhaps, though, she's found something more, a sympathy for dragons. it sounds just like Morgana, to read hidden books behind Uther's back.

One thing he knows: He can't wait until tomorrow morning to see the dragonlord - if that's what he is. No, the dragonlord needs treatment, food, water. Arthur will have to go tonight.

He slips the book from his jacket and shoves it into a pack, preparing to leave.

* * *

Arthur sneaks out in the gathering darkness, a faded blue cloak pulled around his shoulders and pack slung over an arm. Inside is bandages and herbs he'd nicked from Gaius, waiting until the Physician was out to slip into his quarters, along with food, a waterskin, and various other supplies. He evades the guards easily, taking the secret passage in the armory only he and a few select people know about, and soon finds himself in the cool stillness of the forest, twigs and leaves crunching softly under his feet.

It's a fair distance on foot, but well within the hour he's arriving at the ravine, scrambling down the incline and approaching cautiously in the darkness. The dark shape appears to be unmoved, still laying where Arthur left it, and he gathers firewood before striking his flints, flame catching and playing off the walls of the cliff. Arthur crouches down next to the still figure and extends a hand, fingers brushing warm skin as he feels for a pulse, not sure which he's hoping for. 

The boy moves suddenly, lurching up as if to strike Arthur before crying out. His face is taught with pain in the flickering light, chest heaving with the force of his breaths and blood staining the bandages. Arthur grabs him, trying to still him before he injures himself further, but the boy only struggles harder, small, inhuman growls punched from his chest. Two blue eyes glare up at Arthur, glazed with pain but still carrying a spark of defiance, and there's no doubting the intelligence in their depths. 

"Easy," Arthur says, pinning the boy's arms down so he's lying on his back, still writhing like a snake. "I'm not going to hurt you."

The boy's eyes narrow in suspicion but he settles, breathing heavily. Arthur slowly lets him go, hands raised in a conciliatory gesture, and the boy tracks his movements.

"I'm going to look at your wounds, alright?"

There's no response, but the boy doesn't try to move again so Arthur carefully reaches back, grabbing his pack and setting it next to him before bending over the boy, starting to undo the bandage on his side. The firelight catches the faint sheen of scales across the boy's skin and Arthur is entranced; he has to force himself to concentrate on the wound as he peels back the bandage, revealing the jagged hole where the bolt had punctured skin. It's red and swollen, angry looking, and Arthur curses silently.  _Infection._

He's no physician, but he knows basic field medicine for his knights, and Gaius has treated enough of his own wounds that he thinks he should be able to copy the process. Digging into his pack he withdraws the jar of honey, dipping two fingers in before spreading it on the wound. The boy hisses in pain and flinches away, but doesn't stop him, and Arthur tries to gentle his touch.

When the honey is sufficiently applied he pulls out the comfrey, wetting it with water and packing it into the wound before bandaging it again. He repeats the process for the thigh wound, keeping the blanket over the boy's hips to preserve his modesty. The boy lies still through it all, though his body is taught as a bow and an occasional rumbling growl escapes when Arthur presses too hard, eyes flashing in the firelight. 

"There," he says as he ties off the bandage, "all done. Sit up."

The boy glares at him mutinously. Arthur rolls his eyes.

"I have food," he tries. "And water. But you have to sit up first."

The boy attempts to lever himself up to no avail, face blanching in pain. Arthur sighs and gets a hand under his shoulder, pulling him up and pushing him back to sit against the cliff wall to the boy's offended snarls, hands batting at Arthur feebly. He offers his waterskin but the boy just stares at it suspiciously, head tilting forward slightly and nose twitching as if trying to smell it.

"It's just water. See?" Arthur takes a swig, pushing it at the boy again. He reaches out with a trembling hand before snatching it quickly and drinking, long, pale throat working and drops of water rolling down his chin. Finished, he hands it back to Arthur silently, and Arthur pulls out the food from his bag. 

He'd packed dried meat, not knowing if dragonlords ate normal human food, and the boy seems to take it readily enough, ripping off a piece with teeth that are ever so slightly pointed at the canines as he watches Arthur with that same unnerving stare. He still hasn't talked, and Arthur is starting to wonder if he can. He seems to understand Arthur, so he's intelligent, and knows the language, but the lack of speech is unsettling. 

"I have to get back," Arthur says finally, as the boy chokes down the last of the meat like a starving animal. In the firelight, he can see the shadows between each of his ribs, and wonders when he'd last eaten. He thinks of the deer, the dragon's claws snapping its neck. He was hungry, he thinks. Maybe that's why he ventured so close to Camelot. Desperation. 

The boy doesn't acknowledge that he's spoken and Arthur sighs, simply watching him for a moment. With his injuries, he's sure the boy can't go anywhere, and he plans to be back early next morning anyways. Gathering his things and putting out the fire, he exits the ravine, feeling eyes on him the entire way.

* * *

Arthur wastes no time the next morning, setting out as the sun is barely peeking above the horizon. He's glad he has the excuse of a quest, as he'll be undisturbed for a week at least, and he can tend to the dragonlord in peace. His pack is heavy on the horse, bedroll snugged tightly to the back of his saddle. He steers his horse to the ravine and dismounts, tying the mare to a tree and venturing down the incline, something like eagerness pushing at his chest. 

He's halfway down when he spots the boy in the middle of the ravine, sprawled out on his stomach with hands raked into the ground, face pale and chest heaving with effort. He spots Arthur and redoubles his efforts, inching along at a painful crawl as Arthur comes to a stop in front of him.

"What the hell are you trying to do?"

The boy makes a plaintive noise, forehead beaded with sweat, and slumps against the ground. Arthur sighs and bends down, grabbing his arm to sling him over his shoulders. The boy growls, and suddenly sharp nails leave searing trails of fire across his cheek, making him stumble back in surprise.

"Ow!" he shouts. "What the hell was that for?"

The boy is curled on the ground, teeth pulled back from his lips in a snarl, and Arthur curses loudly, feeling the stinging cuts where he had scratched him. Anger boils, threatening to spill over, but then he glances at the boy and sees his eyes, glazed with fear and pain and carrying an edge of desperation, and wilts. The boy is scared and hurt, he realizes, and like a wounded animal is lashing out. 

He crouches down again but out of reach of sharp nails, meeting the defiant gaze. "Listen, I'm not going to hurt you. So stop attacking me and killing yourself by trying to escape."

The boy scowls. Arthur chances moving closer, reaching out to touch his shoulder. He flinches, but Arthur's hand rests gently against the smooth skin and he stays still, eyes searching Arthur's with a hint of confusion even as a soft growl rumbles out of him. Arthur ignores it, ducking to sling the boy over his shoulder as gently as he can, though he still hears a sharp intake of breath at the pain and the growls continue, like an involuntary vocalization of the boy's discontent.

He sets him down against the cliff wall again, draping the blanket over his naked lap. The boy's scowl is a living thing, his whole face drawn in disgruntlement and eyes piercing Arthur like chips of ice, shoulders nearly vibrating with tension. 

"Stay," Arthur says imperiously, rewarded by the deepening of his scowl. The boy makes no move, however, and Arthur climbs back up the incline, returning with his pack and bedroll. He draws out his waterskin and another pouch of dried meat and holds them out. The boy doesn't take them, chin tilting up defiantly and hands fisting at his sides.

Arthur sighs, shaking the waterskin at him. "Come on."

"Why are you doing this?"

The voice startles Arthur. He blinks, seeing the boy frozen, watching him with narrowed eyes.  _So he can speak,_ he thinks. The boy's voice is lower than he would have thought and rough around the edges, as if he hasn't spoken in a while.

"Why am I doing what?"

The boy gestures with a hand to his bandages. "You shot me. Why are you trying to keep me alive?"

Arthur swallows, mind whirling as he tries to come up with an answer. "I don't know," he finally answers honestly. 

The boy scoffs, slumping back against the stone and looking away. His thin, scaled chest rises and falls unevenly, the bandage on his side dirtied from his escape attempt, and unwashed locks of raven hair fall across his forehead messily, strands starting to curl around his ears. In the light of day his fine features are visible, lashes fluttering with every blink of his eyes. He's beautiful, all long limbs and pale skin and cheekbones, the softness of full lips under a flared nose. Even the ears, slightly large for the rest of him, somehow fit. If it weren't for the shimmer of scales on his chest he could pass for human, but there's something ethereal to him as well, a hidden power and grace that makes Arthur think of the rush of wings. 

"I didn't know dragonlords existed," Arthur says, to fill the silence. "Not until you. And I thought all the dragons were dead."

"They are." It's barely more than a whisper, laced with sorrow. The boy's head is still turned away from Arthur, but he sees moisture gather in the corner of his eye. 

So he _is_ the last. The only one. Arthur wonders what happened to his parents - did he have parents? - and finds himself suddenly saddened on behalf of the boy, all alone in the world. He's about Arthur's age, maybe a little younger, and Arthur knows what it is to miss a parent, the hole it leaves in one's heart.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly.

The boy takes a shuddering breath, jaw clenching. "What do you plan to do with me?"

"I don't know."

Another scoff. Arthur sees the helpless frustration in his eyes, the hurt, and reaches out automatically but the boy flinches violently and whips his head to snarl at him, teeth bared and eyes glinting with hatred.

"Don't touch me!" he spits. 

Arthur retreats, leaving the waterskin and meat as an offering. The boy hunches in on himself, not looking at Arthur, and ignores them. Arthur settles on the other side of the ravine, lying back and pretending to sleep.

Minutes pass. The sun climbs up in the sky. There's a rustling, and Arthur cracks an eye open, watching the boy hesitantly grip the waterskin. He looks up, and Arthur hastily closes his eyes again, feigning sleep. There's the sound of the cap being pulled off, and then the sound of tearing meat.

Arthur smiles privately, letting the sun warm his skin and spread warmth into his bones.

* * *

Around midmorning, Arthur changes the boy's bandages, still receiving glares and threatening rumbles that never lead anywhere. 

"What's your name?" he asks as he cleans the wound on his side, pleased to note the infection has gone down. "You have one, right?"

"Of course I have one," the boy snaps. He winces as Arthur smears honey into the wound.

"Well?" Arthur presses, the smell of herbs pungent in his nose as he crushes the comfrey.

There's a long silence, and then, "Merlin."

Arthur nods, a thrill going through him at finally hearing the boy's name. "I'm Arthur."

Merlin just grunts, turning his head to stare into nothing again. Arthur packs the moistened comfrey into the wound with gentle fingers, aware of the heat of Merlin's skin and his closeness, naked except for the blanket over his lap. This close, head ducked level with Merlin's shoulder, Arthur catches a hint of smoke under the herbs, a scent of fire and brimstone that clings to Merlin like a cloak. He dares to trail his fingers over the scales as he wraps the bandage around Merlin's middle, and finds them smooth and warm to the touch, iridescent in the sunlight.

Merlin flinches slightly, and Arthur yanks his hand back, realizing he's been staring at Merlin's chest too long.

"Sorry." His cheeks flush and he quickly ties off the bandage, moving to Merlin's thigh. Merlin is still propped against the wall, legs spread in front of him, and Arthur has to ruck the blanket up to unwind the soiled bandages, acutely aware of the proximity to his groin. His thighs are creamy white with a dusting of black hair, skin hot to the touch, but what Arthur had marked as fever and infection he reassesses as normal given the wound's impressive state of healing. Perhaps he just runs warm, being a dragon.

He dresses the wound in silence, trying not to let his fingers or eyes linger any more than usual, and Merlin sits stonily, exuding hostility like dragonfire. Arthur is brimming with questions and curiosity, wanting to know everything about him, but he's fairly certain that way leads to more scratching and he's not particularly inclined to repeat that experience. His cheek smarts enough even with the honey he'd applied.

Instead he finishes tying the bandage and retreats to the other side of the ravine, opening the book he'd stolen from the library. It tells him little he didn't already know - that dragons are fearsome creatures, that a dragon's heart is on its right, that they're hard to kill. It's when he finds the section on dragonlords that he perks up, scanning the lines eagerly.  

_Dragonlords are thought to have been created when the soul of a dragon was merged with a human's. They have the remarkable ability to shift between forms, though their human form is marked by the appearance of scales on the torso and the dragon's most distinguishable feature - a heart on the right side of the chest. Their form often takes on characteristics of the dragonlord such as hair and eye color, and although dragonlords can appear quite human they retain many dragon characteristics both physically as well as of the mind. Dragonlords - name denoting their nobility - have long been advisors of kings, most notably the ~~Pendragon line, those descended from the very first dragon riders.~~ They often act as mediators between dragons and humans, being able to command dragons, and manage the dragons and dragon riders alike. Uniquely, dragonlords usually take a human lover. The dragonlord trait appears to be passed down from father to son despite having a human mother, making dragonlords both rare and valuable. Dragonlords, like dragons, are extremely protective of their kin and those close to them, and often form intense, unbreakable bonds with their lovers. Having the protection of a dragonlord is considered the highest honor, and the wisdom and power the dragonlords lend is such that they are valued beyond compare. However, the loyalty of a dragonlord cannot be bought or coerced, though many have tried and failed. Their loyalty must be won, and it is in the winning that a true King proves himself to his people. A King with a dragonlord is to be revered, and the people assured of their protection. A King who fails to win a dragonlord's trust would be viewed with the utmost suspicion, and his kingdom surely fall to ruin._

Arthur reads the passage again, frowning at the one line scribbled out in the middle. If he squints, he can just make out the words.  _Pendragon line, those descended from the very first dragon riders._

Dragon riders. He stares at the book, uncomprehending.  _Dragon riders?_ It implies that dragons were somehow... _allies._ That the Pendragons, just maybe, gained their name from _dragons._ That their crest has meaning. 

Dragonlords were  _revered._

He looks up at Merlin, who is curled on his side, asleep. He doesn't look like some powerful protector, advisor to kings. With the blanket drawn over his shoulders he simply looks like a peasant boy, albeit one with striking features.  _Rare and valuable._ Well, he's certainly rare, Arthur thinks with a pang. He's the last dragonlord, if he's to be believed. 

He can't imagine why Uther wouldn't tell him this. More than that, he can't imagine why Uther would kill the dragonlords. Surely he hadn't...right? His father had killed the dragons, but he can't have killed the dragonlords. He can't have.

He's learned, all his life, that dragons are evil. That they will kill a man without hesitation. They are bloodthirsty monsters. But the book paints a different story.  _Mediators._ The one it paints is of harmony, dragonlords keeping dragons in check and advising kings, men riding dragons. 

Maybe, Arthur thinks, maybe something happened to the dragonlords, and the dragons were no longer under their control. Maybe Uther was forced to kill the dragons. He clings to this notion, unwilling to believe differently. That must be it. His father would never kill an entire race for....what? What reason could there possibly be? 

No, it must be the dragons' fault. They turned on them once the dragonlords disappeared, he's certain. 

Nevertheless, a tiny seed of doubt takes root in his heart.

* * *

"Can you eat anything besides meat?"

Merlin gives him a withering stare. 

Arthur raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "Is that a yes?" He holds out a palmful of berries, shaking them enticingly. "They're good. Have some."

Merlin turns his head away, chin in the air stubbornly. Sighing, Arthur turns his palm, spilling the berries into a pile on the ground, in Merlin's reach.

"Have it your way."

He backs up. A moment later, Merlin reaches out and picks up a berry, popping it into his mouth. 

"Of course," Arthur mutters. Merlin still hates him. He wonders what that means for his future kingship. According to the book, nothing good.

He glances up at the sky, taking in the afternoon sun. He really should hunt for dinner. There was dried meat enough for lunch, and the berries he picked, but he wants fresh meat and he'd bet Merlin does too. 

"I'm going hunting," he announces, though Merlin barely blinks. "I'll be back soon."

He doesn't mean it as a threat, but Merlin's mouth curves down anyways. Suppressing another sigh Arthur gathers his gear, noticing how Merlin eyes his crossbow warily. Right, he'd shot him with this same bow.  _That_ might be the source of the hatred, he thinks scathingly. 

"Don't look at me like that," he snaps. "I'm not going to shoot you."

Merlin turns his head with a soft snarl, eyes dark, and Arthur immediately regrets snapping. He's trying to earn his trust, not yell at him.

Huffing in frustration, he stomps up the incline and into the forest, immediately relaxing into the focus of the hunt. He lets his worries drift away as he moves through the trees, and soon he flushes out a rabbit, killing it with a soft shush of the bow. A glance at the sky tells him it's been over an hour, and he hurries back to the ravine, rabbit it hand, to find Merlin leaning against the wall looking bored. He doesn't start at Arthur's appearance, but does perk up when Arthur makes the fire, skinning the rabbit as flames crackle and leap. 

Merlin stares at the fire almost longingly, something frustrated in his gaze. Arthur puts the pieces together and surmises that Merlin can't shift to a dragon while injured - something he's grateful for, otherwise he'd probably be dead. But then he remembers how Merlin had pinned him down, had Arthur at his mercy, and hadn't killed him, and doesn't know what to think. He studies Merlin across the fire, wondering why he had spared his life. Yes, Arthur had freed him, but he had been the one to shoot him in the first place, and Merlin clearly hates him.

Skinned, Arthur roasts the rabbit on the fire, stealing glances at Merlin every so often. It surprises him, how his opinion of Merlin has shifted so drastically in one day. Yesterday, he'd tried to kill him. Today...

Today, he wants to earn his trust, because he doesn't think Merlin is evil. Even before he'd read the book, it was written in the blue of Merlin's eyes. Merlin may be a dragonlord, but he is also human, and he had had a chance to kill Arthur and turned away. 

Arthur clears his throat, turning the spit to distribute the heat evenly over the meat. "Why were you so close to Camelot?"

Merlin doesn't answer for a long time, so long Arthur is afraid he'll never speak to him again, but then his soft voice comes - "I was hunting."

"But why here? Surely you knew how dangerous it was."

Merlin shrugs, then winces. "The woods here are large and full of prey. I was too conspicuous anywhere else, or there wasn't enough food. At least in Camelot I'd only be killed."

"Only be killed? What does that mean?" _What could be worse than certain death?_ Arthur wonders. 

Merlin finally looks up, eyes unreadable across the flames. "I'm the last dragonlord. I'm more valuable alive. Surely you know that."

Arthur thinks back to the passage - _the loyalty of a dragonlord cannot be bought or coerced, though many have tried and failed._ He can well imagine people trying to use Merlin, and swallows convulsively at the thought.  _Coerced._ Yes, he thinks, there are worse things than death.

"I'm sorry." He has a thought, that maybe Merlin thinks that's why Arthur left him alive, and Merlin's distrust makes more sense. "I don't want to do that," he says, trying to convey honesty. "I would never..." He shakes his head. "I won't harm you. I give you my word."

"You word?" Merlin sounds bitter. "Right. What _do_ you want with me then?"

"Nothing. I just want to help you."

He scoffs. "You want something. You humans always do."

"Is it so hard to believe that I saved you because it was the right thing to do?"

"Saved me? You're the one who  _shot_ me!" Merlin shouts, voice an angry slash in the lengthening shadows of evening. "You're the one who's keeping me here like a prisoner!"

Arthur reels back, stung. "You're not a prisoner."

Merlin snorts. "Right."

"You're not."

"You'd let me go, just like that?"

"Yes," Arthur whispers, though the thought of never seeing Merlin again aches somewhere behind his breastbone. "Yes, I would."

Merlin blinks at him, looking momentarily wrong-footed. His mouth opens and closes but no sound escapes. Finally it snaps closed with a click and he slumps against the wall, staring into the flames. Arthur takes the rabbit off the fire, cutting it in half and placing the pieces on the tin plates he'd brought, offering one to Merlin.

He stares at Arthur, unreadable, and then takes the plate, beginning to eat. 

* * *

Arthur shakes out the bedroll, starting to lay it next to Merlin under the overhang. Merlin frowns, eyes tracking his movements.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm hardly going to make you sleep on the hard ground when you're injured," Arthur replies. 

"What about you?"

Arthur shrugs. "I'm used to sleeping on the ground. I'll be fine." He offers a hand. "Here. Let me help you."

"I'm fine," Merlin snips, ignoring his hand. He pushes against the ground, trying to shift himself onto the bedroll, but his arms shake and his face goes tight with pain and Arthur sighs, reaching out to grip his shoulders.

"Merlin, you idiot, let me help."

"I will bite you," Merlin growls. 

Arthur ignores the threat, getting an arm under Merlin's good leg and around his shoulders and lifting him in one motion onto the bedroll. He's appallingly light, bones fragile under Arthur's hand, and the dark, scaled ridges of his spine stick out in the low light. Arthur presses him to lay flat on the bedroll, fingers already starting on his bandages, and Merlin slumps back with a resigned sigh, head turning to stare at the fire scant feet away. 

The bandage comes off easily and Arthur peers at the wound, surprised at its rapid healing. It looks a week old already, and it's only been a day.

"You heal fast," he comments, studying the already closing edges of the hole. 

"Dragon," Merlin grunts, as if that's explanation enough. Maybe it is. 

Arthur hums and sets to work re-doing the dressing, the process familiar now. 

"Where are you from?" he asks as he works, hoping this is a time Merlin decides to answer. 

"Why?"

"Just curious."

Merlin is silent for a moment, a hitch of breath when Arthur prods the wound the only sound. "Ealdor," he finally replies. "A small village in Cenred's lands."

Arthur frowns. "I thought..."

"What?"

"I thought dragonlords were nobility. Not..."

"Peasants?"

Arthur nods silently. Merlin sighs.

"My...." He swallows, and Arthur's hands still as he watches Merlin's face, cataloguing the emotions flickering across it. "When my father fled Camelot, he ended up in Ealdor. He met my mother there, but he was forced to leave before I was born."

"Your father was from Camelot?"

Merlin nods.

"Why did he run?" Arthur questions.

Merlin stares at him as if he thinks Arthur has suddenly lost his mind. " _Why did he run?_ Maybe because his kin were being hunted down and slaughtered!"

"The dragons," Arthur says slowly. "Right, but wouldn't a dragonlord have been valuable? He could have stopped the dragons from turning on Camelot."

Merlin stares again. "You have no idea, do you?" he says faintly. "Gods, he twisted it-" He breaks off, pain flashing across his expression. "You're a fool if you believe that."

"Then  _tell_ me the truth. Please," Arthur adds, beseeching.

"You want the truth?" Merlin's eyes are like crystals in the firelight. "I'll tell you a story, the same one my father told me before he died."

Arthur settles at Merlin's side, watching him. "I'm listening."

Merlin takes a breath. "They say that long ago, dragons and humans were always at war. Many died on both sides, and the blood ran rivers through the land. The Gods convened, knowing they had to stop the war, or all would be lost. So one day, they took the soul of a human and merged it with a dragon's, creating the first dragonlord."

Merlin's voice has taken on the rich timbre of storytelling, rising and falling like a needle through fabric, ensnaring Arthur. 

"The dragonlord, by chance, saved the life of a King. Unknowing of who he was, the King offered him riches and titles in return, but the dragonlord refused. He asked only for friendship, and a place at the King's side. And so the dragonlord became the King's advisor, and helped him bring peace to the land, but still the war raged. Until, one day, the dragonlord revealed himself to his King."

Merlin's eyes are distant, a small smile tugging at his lips. 

"You see, the King was in love with the dragonlord, and the dragonlord in love with the King. The dragonlord knelt before the King, prepared to lose his life, but instead the King embraced him, swearing to end the war between their kinds. And so the dragonlord called the dragons, commanded them, and the King offered peace. The war was ended. The dragonlord pledged his life and his love to his King, promising always to protect him and his descendants so long as they upheld truth, justice and honor. And in his dragon form, he bowed before his King, and invited him onto his back, that he may fly with the dragons and know their world. Thus, the King became the first dragon rider, and was henceforth known as Pendragon."

_So the book was right,_ Arthur thinks.  _Pendragons were dragon riders._ But he knows this isn't the end of the story, and Merlin's face grows darker, eyes burning with anger.

"The dragons and humans lived in harmony for many generations," he continues. "Dragonlords advised worthy Kings, and dragons carried men into battle against their enemies. But the last descendant of the Pendragon line, Uther Pendragon, distrusted the ways of the dragons. He often discounted the advice of his dragonlord, and shunned the ways of the dragon riders. One night, after his wife had just given birth to their child, a dragon broke into the castle. Some say the dragon was angry with Uther, others say the dragonlord wanted Ygraine for himself, and set the dragon on her, but that is a lie. Whatever the reason, it's said the dragon tried to attack the child, and Ygraine defended him. No one knows what exactly happened, but when the guards entered, the dragon and Ygraine were gone and the child was crying in its cradle."

Arthur breathes shallowly, trying not to give anything away. It's  _him._ The child was  _him,_ and Merlin has no idea.

"Uther blamed the dragons," Merlin says, voice like broken glass, "and the dragonlord, and turned on them, slaughtering them one by one. He used his dragonlord to call the dragons near, pretending to want peace, but it was a trap. Only the last dragon, the Great Dragon, he did not kill, but imprisoned deep beneath the castle, where none could free it. The dragonlord, helped by someone in Camelot, escaped, fleeing for his life. Uther hunted down and killed the rest of his kin, spreading his hatred across the land, until that dragonlord was the last of his kind and the dragons were no more."

Merlin looks up at Arthur, eyes glittering. "That dragonlord was my father."


End file.
